


Tell your friends to sharpen their teeth

by MMXIII



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Psychopaths In Love, criminal boyfriends, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memory of a match made in the most nefarious part of hell ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell your friends to sharpen their teeth

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly finished, but I'm enjoying the process - I think I'll add to it as I go!  
> Thanks for reading ^^
> 
> Lyrics from 'And the Snakes Start to Sing', Bring Me the Horizon (Sempiternal)

_I've lost the plot again._  
 _Tell your friends to sharpen their teeth:_  
 _There's a few quid to be made._  
 _And my soul's a sorry state,_  
 _So come on down, you empty lovers;_  
 _Worms come out of the woodwork_  
 _And the snakes start to sing._

 

-3 years ago-

Brixton, London  
4.30am

The bar is dirty, _filthy_ really, with clouds of smoke recoiling from the stained ceiling, condensed sweat sliding down the grimy windows, damp grainy dirt smeared across the dark though oddly colourless carpet tile. It smells like unemployment, football hooliganism, chemically augmented memory and piss.

Especially unsavoury is the basement in which Sebastian Moran stands taping up his hands, ready for the next fight that’s going to knock some more shame out of his head to make room for a comparative amount of whisky. He only barely registers the sound of loosely inebriated men making bets in the background; all he can see as he steps into the stagnant ring of fluorescent light in the centre of the room is the man across from him cracking his knuckles like a 90s cartoon. He’s from Sheffield originally, ex SAS, heavier, _slower_.

No less desperate though, no less hungry.

Four fights in and Sebastian is naturally exhausted; both eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, eyes bloodshot. His pupils contract sluggishly in the bleached light that burns his abused retinas. Someone with an Irish lilt places an unusually high bet in the background as both men begin to circle warily to the sound of jeering, whistling and semi-drunken howls of approval.

 _Head, shoulder, groin, jaw, stomach_  
There are some sickening noises another man would find distressing  
Sebastian however is much more efficiently engineered

His behaviour has always raised eyebrows even when he was in the army and even he finds it a little twisted that he’s able to _crowd please_ by breaking a man’s jaw and leaving him deaf in one ear. As he stands over his unconscious opponent in the suddenly silent shithole covered in blackened sweat and somebody else’s blood he thinks he sees the monochrome flash of an expensive suit in his blood-soaked peripheral vision. Turning his head to see however makes his eyes swim. Grimacing he reaches for his jacket which now smells _disgusting_ having been made contact with the floor and resolutely ignores everyone who calls after him as he pockets his earnings and grabs the nearest drink from the hand of a man who’s eating much better than he is. He ascends the steps three at a time with energy he doesn't have and falls into the desolate street.

The cold air meets his feverish skin like an oncoming train, causing him to gasp as the silence simultaneously makes the ringing in his ears a thousand times more pronounced. Reeling and trying to ignore the indignant twinge in his shoulder his eyes catch sight of a covered bus stop just as it begins to rain.

Things have definitely been worse he reckons, time, alcohol and head trauma have softened the edges of his dishonourable discharge.

He lights a low tar cigarette with an awful cheap plastic lighter that barely works. Both were taken from the jacket pocket of the first man Sebastian fought, the one who destroyed his shoulder. It’s depressing really, but he figures it suits the mood; the boots he’s wearing are the most expensive thing he owns and they’re not even his.

Total, _violent_ apathy is written into every single plane and angle of his posture as he tips his head back and soaks up the cadence of the rain

 

* * *

 

‘You seem to have developed a rather intense professional relationship with a violent, ruthless individual. Perhaps you could enlighten us regarding the more benign manifestations of psychopathy…?’  
Sebastian just grins as he sits restrained, though still defiant in a steel chair bolted to the floor of a Spartan room. Several bones in his right hand are broken, the flesh around the gold ring on his middle finger black and swollen. The pain from his left shoulder burns white behind his eyes, dislocated, they must have that on file somewhere, _wankers_. He’s got stormcloud bruising on the side of his face, bleeding out like a developing Polaroid. His back however, is as straight as it was when they pulled the bag of his head.  
'I don't know what you mean' Sebastian looks up insolently, 'he's a normal guy, I met him outside a bar'  
His interrogator has the good grace to look incredulous  
Sebastian doesn't succeed in smothering his slightly hysterical amusement. His mirth earns him a brutal blow to the back of the head

'Mr Moran, there are several extremely unpleasant things we can do to you without leaving any physical evidence. That in mind, I suggest y-'  
There's a crackle of static as a radio relayed voice interjects with something that can really only be described as amusement.  
' _oooh, hang on a minute, I want to make a suggestion too!'_  
There's a moment of confusion before the three suits in the room frantically attempt to locate the source of the lyrical disruption  
Sebastian leans back in his chair smirking in the midst of the chaos, 'hi James' he directs to the empty space  
' _hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii_ ' comes the giddy response

 

* * *

 

A thousand frantic droplets lose their stolen neon light as they shatter softly, rhythmically on uneven pavements before merging into puddles quivering languidly beneath sticky films of petrol, nicotine, sweat. Despite the constant baritone white-noise of distant traffic, cheering and heavy bass, the streets are largely empty. Jaundiced light from the bar across the road bleeds into a glowing sheen across the tarmac that falls just short of where Sebastian is slumped; the silver-edged teeth of its smashed glass side are barely discernible save for a dull orange tint from a single cigarette held listlessly between the first two fingers of a hand using its other three to hold a faceted glass. The gold liquid inside is spotted with curling flecks of white ash. The glass itself is smeared with something red and sticky as is the wad of £20 notes split between three tired, shapeless pockets. His head is bowed with something like dejection though held resolutely over bruised forearms that rest on scuffed knees.  
The steel bench creaks as he shifts and sighs heavily.  
Several bloody coughs break the damp silence before trailing off into an unhealthy wheeze which is smothered by a frayed cuff.  
The silence and the rain are equally deafening.

‘Trust you-‘  
The dirty blonde head snaps up jarringly, surprisingly alert all things considered  
‘- to find the worst part of the rough end of town...'

'who the bloody fuck are you?'  
The small dark-haired man rolls his neck in an oddly reptilian gesture and nonchalantly twists an expensive looking cufflink in an impeccably tailored suit. It's both deeply repellent and utterly fascinating  
'language, dearest. Daddy's come along way to find you'

Sebastian just stares

 

* * *

 

\- 3 years later -

6.32am

Sebastian wakes with a jolt, brows furrowed as he stares straight up at the high Georgian ceiling before glancing briefly at the creases across the bare expanse of deep royal blue Egyptian cotton next to him. Unusually there is actually a mild depression in the opposite pillow coupled with a wayward strand of short black hair and a vaguely chemical smell. The sound of obnoxious pop music pervades the room. Sebastian raises his hand to reach for the now redundant alarm clock that's level with his head but aborts the action prematurely as he catches sight of his left arm. Its been labelled in scrawled, boyish black ballpoint;

_'radial fracture, idiocy, 1982'_  
 _'severed deltoid, kickboxing, 1994'_  
 _'multiple knuckle fractures, tempertempertemper, 1984-present' ..._

'little shit' he says to the ceiling with half an obscenely charismatic grin on his face  
'daddy heard that!' comes the mock-indignant retort from the next room

'I hate you' Sebastian whispers fondly, waiting momentarily before grinning deliriously as the retaliatory footsteps get louder

'you're right' James murmurs later, nuzzling Sebastian's hand, 'hate is much, much _sexier_ '  
'mmmmm'  
'


End file.
